


Doll Furniture

by SenkoWakimarin



Series: Fake It 'til the Wedding Bells [2]
Category: Punisher (Comics)
Genre: An Actual Relationship but Like They Refuse to Talk About It, Anal Fisting, Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-01
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-10-05 03:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20482481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Linus leans into the act and gets more honesty than he'd ever expected.





	Doll Furniture

**Author's Note:**

> oh this is. extremely self indulgent, but when is my work not? big thanks to Inbox and Juice for their support while I was working on this, I hope you both enjoy it.
> 
> Is this identity porn? Should I have tagged for identity porn?

There were things they did for each other that went beyond the pretense of 'coworkers' or the more nebulous concept of 'partners'. Nothing lies that way, Linus thinks, nothing but trouble.

And yet he sees the mournful look Frank gives the slacks he's bundling to burn with the rest of the trash, and he knows a rather embarrassing trip to the dry cleaner is in his future as he quietly sets the slacks aside with the rest of the salvageable laundry. Frank didn't let him know about most of the things he wanted, so when Linus got a hint, he took it.

The clothes Frank had worn for the job are a loss. Linus accepts that without question; it was pointless asking Frank to take any measure of care with clothes, and when he's working, it's really the last thing that matters. It's only a shame because the fit and cut of those jeans on him had been... well, something.

Ideas come up vague and then sort of work themselves to usability for Linus. The only reason Frank would be unhappy about him getting rid of the ruined suit is that he liked the way Linus looked in it. With the job done, Linus didn't have an excuse to wear it, and really, Linus doesn't think it's _ just _the suit Frank liked.

Frank doesn't ask for things he wants. Not things like kindness or sex or comfort. He'll ask Linus to go to war with him, go through hell for him, ask him to learn to lay stitches in his skin or help make plans that could easily get him killed, he'll ask Linus to build him weapons or upgrade the van. For Frank Castle's endless war, he'll ask just about anything.

But when it comes to getting him to say what he wants when it's just them, when there's no fight on the immediate horizon and they're just two idiots holed up together with too many guns at hand? Frank clams up, something in him sticks, and it's like pulling teeth to get a damn thing out of him.

It should be so much more frustrating than it is, but the reality of it is that Linus has come to sort of _ like _the way he has to work Frank over to get that facade to crack. It makes whatever confession he gets Frank to cough up all the sweeter. Not just anyone can make Frank admit he has human wants and needs.

When he takes the suit to be dry cleaned, he does a little extra shopping. He's been buying Frank's clothes long enough that he knows what size he takes in everything, and he sees him often enough that it's easy, even without him standing there, to pick something that will be flattering on him. A blue, patterned shirt Frank will complain is too small, an undershirt that's so soft and thin it'll be just about transparent stretched over his torso, and a pair of jeans with a price tag that's probably a sin.

Cum washes out. There's a couple places on the shirt for his suit where Frank must have gotten blood on him, but they'll be hidden under the jacket. All in all, it's still a good quality suit.

Frank's sleeping when Linus gets back, which isn't much of a shock. Frank keeps odd hours and tends to sleep light when Linus convinces him to lay down with him. That Frank trusts him enough to sleep around him at all shouldn't feel like such a flattering honor, but Linus has been tied up in this long enough to accept that that's just the way of it. And sometimes Frank's weird sleep pattern gave Linus a chance to clear up work he wanted done.

The suit still fits perfectly. Linus takes the time to shower, slicking his hair and dithering over putting the gloves on before Frank wakes up while making a few calls. He doesn't wear gloves most of the time, but he'll have to when they go out. 

Frank won't ask for anything he doesn't think is 'necessary', and he sure as hell won't just dress nice and go on a date if Linus asks, even though Linus would put serious money on it being something he wants. Figuring Frank out was like building a puzzle of pieces when the puzzle-maker kept half the pieces to himself and dolled them out as hard-won presents. It was work, but Linus couldn't deny that he sort of enjoyed it. After all, not everyone was allowed to even try putting the puzzle together.

So there has to be some pretense to this. It's not Linus taking Frank out, it's Michael, rich heir to an obscure fortune, out with his bodyguard, Jack, making themselves visible to see if either of the men Frank lost in the crowd after the bullets started flying in De Rossi's poker room would surface. Linus isn't blind, and while he doesn't think anyone who isn't used to watching Frank's expressions and coaxing him to share what's going on in his head would have picked up on it, he figured out pretty quick that Frank _ liked _being his arm candy. 

He liked Linus looking at him in public like he was a treat for later, liked being teased, liked having to pretend he didn't know Linus was six seconds from jumping him in the nearest men's room. He'd seemed less than thrilled to play the role of a bodyguard who was only interested in Linus's money, which was... interesting. Linus could work with that. After all, Frank had barely waited to get to work after Linus had left that night, and as worked up as he'd been when he got back to the safe house they'd agreed on, Linus had a sneaking suspicion that leaning into the idea of 'smitten but replaceable bodyguard' might suit whatever drive is pushing Frank here.

Let him have the excuse to give Linus the long looks he kept giving at the bar that night, damn near blowing the whole game. Gelli had hesitated to let Linus reel him in, nervous about that slab of muscle glaring at anyone who touched Linus, but they'd managed. The whole fucking thing had been one stress after another with the agony of knowing at the end of it all he'd still just be left to wring his hands and worry about when Frank would come back to him and in what condition.

It had all worked out. 

That was the thing; it kept working out just well enough to keep things going. Linus knows enough about odds to know that eventually, it wouldn't. Eventually, the wrong person would get the drop on Frank, or Frank would go after the wrong guy, and one of them would end up dead. Linus had already lost more than he'd ever meant to offer to this fucking war of Frank's, and on his more bitter evenings, he's has no choice but to accept that eventually, one way or another, it would be his life offered up for it.

And Frank would go on fighting, Linus or no Linus.

In the meantime, there was life to live. And Linus intended to live while he was alive, whatever else. He wasn't going to run from this or try to hide from it. He was in it, and there was no easy out. That being the case, he figures he should take the fun he can.

He's ready when Frank wakes up. Jacket off, shirt not buttoned all the way, hair combed back; he can feel Frank's eyes on him, the moment he enters the room. There is weight to his appreciation. When he'd first given Linus that slow once over, Linus had figured it was the effect with the jacket, which was tailored and made him look broad-shouldered. It wasn't _ that _ well tailored, in Linus's opinion, a little tight at the elbows, but nice enough.

Then he'd taken the jacket off, and Frank's look had gotten more interested, if anything. Frank liked Linus's body, liked looking at him, and something about the suit highlighted that. Fair and fine, Linus figured; a T-shirt and jeans might be more comfortable, but he liked Frank's attention. And having Frank stunned into that blinking silence again now _ is _ a treat, so Linus doesn't exactly mind putting in the effort to do this dress up act again.

It would be nice to be able to do this -- or anything -- like normal people in a normal relationship, but he's with Frank, so that really takes 'normal' right out of the equation. 

"You should hurry up and change," he says, nodding to the little stack of clothes on the folding chair, fixing his watch around his wrist. He'd been careful to remove the price tags on the new outfit, because listening to a lecture on how many bullets Frank's new jeans were worth was very low on Linus's short list of priorities for tonight. "You can shower after dinner. The whole… unwashed manly guy thing kinda sells the look, I think."

In the process of getting everything lined up for tonight, Linus has had plenty of time to think of exactly how to handle Frank, however he plays this. Getting and interested but otherwise utterly blank look from Frank while he fiddles with the new clothes on the chair is actually a relief. 

Frank playing clueless is better than Frank digging his heels in and resisting the whole way. Linus can work with either, but this route will allow a good mood to linger.

"It's been three days since De Rossi's club and you're still missing two guys. Chances are, they ran back to the family and are trying to lay low. No additional chatter about a new or increased price on your head means neither of them put the pieces together and figured out who you are," Linus keeps the tone of his explanation just a shade above patronizing, because really, it's not a terribly conceived plan. He just hopes nothing comes of it, because he's got better things in mind for that hotel room than turning it into a stakeout base. "They'll be looking for Michael and/or his aggressive bodyguard, not the Punisher."

The look on Frank's face becomes solemn as he mulls that one over. He looks like a confused dog for a moment, shown a treat and then having it disappear, and that shouldn't be cute but it is. 

Linus has been playing this game with Frank long enough that he has a pretty good idea of whether the bait's being taken or not. There are degrees to everything with Frank, and this is no different. On some level, Linus knows Frank thinks the plan is bullshit, but it's probably genuine confusion on why Linus would go through the trouble. When it comes to just about anything other than planning an efficient mass murder, Frank's about as bright as a brick.

But he nods, rakes his fingers through his hair in that particular way he does when he's trying to make himself wake up fast, and starts stripping out of his A-line and shorts. 

There's a job perk he hadn't expected but surely appreciated, getting to watch Frank strip and then pull the new clothes on. He doesn't at any moment pause or hesitate, but the blush that creeps over his neck and ears says he noticed Linus watching. 

The jeans look like they were stitched to Frank's exact measurement, very little left to the imagination, and the shirt looks like it was poured on. Linus can tell by the way Frank's mouth sets he wants to complain, and lets his look be a little more of a leer. Lets Frank see how much he likes what he's seeing. The complaint dies before Frank says a word, and he looks away for a moment, focusing on getting his sleeves rolled properly. 

Linus makes a show of buttoning his shirt up the rest of the way, ignoring the way Frank's look zeroes in on his hands. Frank has a thing for hands -- or, at least, he's got a thing for _ Linus’s _hands. He thinks he's subtle, but Linus bets Frank's feeling a little unduly warm, given the stricken look on his face as he watches Linus do up his tie. 

"I reserved us a table at that La Regina place Gelli used to bar tend at, De Rossi was always hanging around there. Figure the family'll be watching his old hang outs."

Which is true, and they probably are, but La Regina hadn't been De Rossi's hang out for about five months, roughly the length of time Gelli had been living in his penthouse. Frank may or may not know that, because while Frank did occasionally sift through the detail stuff, most of it was left for Linus to manage. La Regina is a nice restaurant with bribe-able waitstaff that happened to be within walking distance of the dry cleaner's Linus liked. 

And it's really kind of interesting, because Linus thinks most nights, Frank would put up some token argument. Frank doesn't go along quietly with most ideas, at least not without a good deal of convincing, though he generally expects everyone to do so with his own ideas. Tonight, Frank doesn't say anything, just folds his arms behind his back and watches Linus with keen attention. 

"Jack got very violent with Mr. De Rossi," Linus says pointedly, fixing his tie bar as he meets Frank's gaze. "Which sort of outs the game of him being Michael's gay-for-pay one-sided romance as bupkis for the two who saw it go down. So tonight, Michael's treating Jack, maybe a reward, maybe just flaunting that both of them are still out there before going back to Virginia or wherever we told them he was from."

"Connecticut," Frank says faintly, blinking as he smooths his hands over his own shirt front, tucking it properly into his jeans. "Pretty sure it was Connecticut."

Interesting. They’d been doing some version of this song and dance long enough that Linus has more than figured out how much Frank likes being bossed around, but this is definitely the first time he’s just fallen in line. It’s something about the suit, maybe, but Linus thinks it’s mostly just that he wants to be… handled. He likes being given a task, orders to follow.

Linus can do that. 

“Sure,” he says, moving into Frank’s space. Usually he’d take it slow, telegraph it, give Frank space to do his twitchy bullshit if he was going to back out, but this time he takes a chance, steps in close, unbuttoning the top two buttons and parting his collar. There’s something about the way Frank sways just a little toward him, leaning into his hands just enough that Linus can’t help noticing. "Connecticut, sounds about right. That the only correction you've got for me?"

There's always something about being given control over a man like Frank. Hell, there are no men like Frank, not really. All this complicated shit, the need to turn a date into a trap or a trap into a date, the way Linus wants to say things and has to settle for showing them and hoping the message scans -- it's worth it, in these moments, where Frank sets himself in Linus's hands and lets him lead. 

And that’s what this is, Frank’s eyes a little wider than usual, looking at Linus and trusting him to lead. Frank looks like he’s expecting a kiss, little bit of colour raised in his cheeks, lips just slightly parted; it’s a stupid look, but cute. Frank’s not always cute, but he cleans up good. When he nods after a second of thought, Linus smiles.

“So it’s a date?” Linus asks, mostly to watch the words hit and the squirming start. 

Frank’s eyes are on Linus’s mouth, and honestly it’s funny, how Frank thinks he’s not perfectly transparent. When he nods again, Linus shows a little mercy, pats his cheek and gives him some space.

“Those jeans were three hundred dollars, so please _ try _ not to wipe your dirty hands on them,” he says, turning away, leaving Frank to sputter while he calls them a cab.

A strong hand grabs him at the elbow, pulling him back around once he's got them a ride, and he knows that look, that sharp eyed, hard mouthed look. That's Frank working up to the kind snarling he gets to when he's looking for a reason to pick a fight. It's like testing boundaries, Linus thinks; Frank seeing if he can push Linus away if he's enough of an asshole.

He lets him get a few words in, hissing, biting -- "You're kidding, three hundred on a pair a --" before he cuts him off, soft and calm. A tone that only ever fails to disarm Frank when he's worked himself into a real rage. 

"I'm allowed to buy you nice things," he says, and he gets to watch the way the words hit, the way Frank flinches back and furrows his brows up in confusion. Layers of shit with him, layers and layers and it's grueling work cutting through all that. But the rewards, in the end -- well. If they aren’t really _ worth it_, they’ll have to suffice. “Why wouldn’t I spoil the man who has my back the way you do?”

"For the..." Frank's face does something complicated, like his brain is struggling to process the concept, and Linus has front row seats to watch the simple pleasure of the idea be dragged down and and chewed through with guilt and smothered with annoyance at Frank's own need to think so damn much. "You mean for the act?"

Probably the easiest thing -- surely the _ kindest_, if measuring only by letting Frank off the hook of admitting that any of the more complicated aspects between them are real and deserving of honest consideration and discussion -- would be to agree that he means it's only for the act. Pretend that he only picked those jeans (and the whole rest of that outfit) thinking of a strategy, putting them back in the costumes of their characters. Don't acknowledge openly that he bought those items specifically because he knew Frank would look good in them and because he'd wanted to buy Frank something nice that wasn't a goddamn weapon. 

It would be easier, Linus knows, to close up some of those layers, go on with the act that they're only doing this as part of a never ending job. 

"Do I?" He asks instead, smiling his best sleazy shark smile and pulling free of Frank's grip as the gorgeous idiot tries to wrestle _ that _into mental submission. "C'mon, the car's gonna be here in a minute. Showtime."

Frank's not a great actor when he's actually trying. When he's passionate about something, he shows it, whether it's appropriate to or not, and he's terrible at putting his own opinions to the side. That's why he'd almost blown everything for them at the bar, made Linus's job a hundred times more difficult, glaring at everyone who touched Linus or even looked at him too long. 

When he's being asked to pretend about something he doesn't care much about, he'd pretty convincing. Ask him to tell a lie about something he considers insignificant, he can lie with such wide-eyed conviction even Linus starts to believe him. 

And of course, in this, given a number of little lies that have been built up to put a 'reason' behind the evening, Frank falls into his 'role' perfectly. He's smitten and considerate and obedient. He lets Linus buy him a drink while they wait for their table, preens under Linus's idle touching, lifting his head to show him his throat when Linus leans in to adjust the lay of his collar once the get out of the cab. 

Frank is very good at this kind of 'acting' because this is really something he'd like to have for real, this is a fantasy bleeding into reality, of something they can never really have. Linus wonders, as Frank pulls his chair out for him at their table, if Frank understands that the only thing stopping them from taking this relationship and making it something real and defined and satisfying, is Frank himself.

They talk about easy small things, nothing real because the real aspects of their lives can't be risked by the wrong person over hearing them even if it only makes that person curious. The table is small and square, and rather than let Frank sit across from him, Linus coaxes him to sit beside him. The white table cloth and low lighting does more than create a sort of classic romantic vibe; it provides cover for a number of covert actions Linus isn't yet sure he'll be given opportunity enough to try. 

"That shirt," Frank says at some point after the wine comes, immediately looking away to focus on the stem of his glass, picking it up to hide behind. "It looks nice on you. Your eyes."

And it's interesting, it's very, very interesting, that he should say something so unnecessary so openly, let himself admit it, even if he's shy about it. Linus slides his own hand under the table cloth and finds Frank's knee, feeling him jump at the contact and giving it a little rub. "It'll look better on the hotel room floor, sweetheart," he says with that easy purr he'd perfected for dealing with Gelli, watching in real time as Frank's higher brain functions start shutting themselves down. 

Of course, the waiter shows up then to take their order, and Frank tries to push Linus's hand off him. Linus stubbornly keeps it where it is, and if Frank really wanted to move him, he'd have no choice but to move, but Frank would have to make a little scene to manage it, and he doesn't want that. 

"I'd like the gnocchi piemontese with a pesto sauce, raspberry vinaigrette for the salad," Linus says, giving the waiter a sleazy smile as he slides his hand a little higher on Frank's thigh. "He's gonna have the sixteen ounce New York strip, side of sauteed asparagus."

Frank’s hand clutches heavily on top of Linus’s, halting him from feeling what he’s most interested in, but Linus can tell at a glance that Frank’s suddenly about as turned on as he’ll ever be without creaming his jeans. Something about that, about how wound up Frank gets just from Linus taking complete charge of this really does it. Just the way Frank seems so wholly caught up in the game, his eyes on Linus all big and moonstruck, his grip on Linus's hand not forbidding but desperate.

Maybe it's that, without the admittedly flimsy excuse of showing up here in hopes of luring out a couple gangsters who are likely long gone, Frank would never have allowed this situation to come up at all.

The waiter tells them what good choices they've made and leaves, and Linus presses his fingers into the muscle of Frank's thigh, feeling his tension while Frank shifts and glances furtively around.

"We're in _ public_," he hisses, but there's no heat in it. It's more that thin, squirming nervousness that comes from being close to a thing Frank thinks is too dirty to ever ask for. 

"This the thing you're scared of getting caught over," Linus asks, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur, faux wondering at Frank's scandal. "You'll murder a dozen creeps for me right there in the backroom of an occupied bar, but _ this _you're afraid of getting caught over."

Frank's eyes are wide and searching, a sort of controlled panic in the way he's trying to parse how much of this is the act, if they've dropped the pretense, how he's expected or allowed to respond. Linus can see the gears working, the slow, painful process of Frank desperately trying to terms with whatever it is that's freezing him up and carry on.

Linus isn't without mercy.

"You ashamed to be out with me, Jack," he says, affecting a pout. Mercy doesn't have to be wholly kind. "I just wanted to treat you nice."

Frank looks slapped, like the idea of his being embarrassed or ashamed of Linus, or whoever Linus is pretending to be, is as confusing as it is offensive. After another hesitant second, he pulls his hand off of Linus's and laces his fingers on the table, high colour blooming on his face as he ducks his head.

De Rossi, Gelli, all those clowns in that backroom the other day, they made huge amounts of money off drugs sold to young gay kids looking for a chance to have fun and escape reality. Party drugs, mostly, but tailored with hooks, the kind that kept customers coming back for more until their bank accounts ran dry or they got themselves killed on it. Dangerous, addictive.

This is Linus's drug, this control over Frank, getting this powerful, capable, violent man to blush and squirm and let him do what he wants. Linus likes making Frank feel good, and that's a danger all on it's own, but the heady feeling of being in _ control _ of Frank, being the boss of him, the sense in a moment like this that if he told Frank to pull down those expensive jeans and bend himself over the table for him, Frank _ would_. Because Frank likes letting Linus control him, and Frank likes risk, and Frank likes being humiliated, and Linus likes pulling the strings behind all those things Frank likes.

It's dangerous, and it will end badly for them both one of these days, if Linus doesn't keep his head clear and stay smart about how he uses his control. 

Frank peeks at him under his lashes, and it's odd, how shy and how... how _ sweet _ a man so bloodthirsty and war-driven can look. Linus knows that in this moment, public space be damned, he could work the fly open on Frank's jeans, right in the middle of this dining room, fish out that thick, heavy dick, and give Frank the hand job he _ knows _Frank's been imagining getting since Linus's hand touched his knee. He could do that and Frank, like a good boy, would bite his lip and smother all the little noises he makes when he's getting it just right, and he'd cum quiet and shaking in Linus's hand right where they are before they ever even get a bite of their dinner.

Hell. 

Stroking his hand over the firm curve of Frank's thigh, Linus contents himself with the eager shaking, the way Frank sits a little straighter, shifting closer in his seat so the side of Linus's hand just grazes his cock. He's hard, but Linus expected nothing less. 

"You're good to me," he says, squeezing that thigh one more time and withdrawing his hand. "Let me be good to you tonight."

Frank licks his lips, starts to says something, and then thinks better of it, closing his mouth and just nodding. It's a subtle nod, and Linus knows better than to read too much into anything Frank does in a situation like this, but he thinks -- he lets himself think -- that they're clear on that front just for a moment. 

The food comes and they eat, Linus passing bites of pasta off his plate to Frank, feeding him right off his fork and making a point of focusing on his mouth as he accepts each little bit off the fork. The blush fades from Frank's cheeks a little, but never leaves, and anyone paying them any attention would see a rich fat guy with a pretty boy toy out on a date, rich guy teasing the boy toy even while he's going out of his way to spoil him. In that regard, it's still an act -- no one looking would ever be able to guess the layers of complexity forced between them.

But it's not just an act, Linus doesn't think. Somewhere in there, Frank came to terms with whatever inner struggle it is he always lets himself get wrapped up in when he's presented with a moment to enjoy himself violence-free, and he's stopped fighting it. When the waiter stops by the table to ask if they're interested in dessert, Frank looks at Linus and licks his lips, and it's not shy so much as considering before he says, "I don't think they've got what I want for dessert here."

"I should hope not," Linus says, looking back to the waiter -- who looks distinctly uncomfortable by this point -- and asking for the check. 

Linus knows Frank's really letting himself relax into this when he hails them a cab and doesn't question Linus telling the driver to run them over to Manhattan, to the Four Seasons hotel, watching with amusement as Frank's eyes go wide.

Most times sharing a cab, Frank keeps careful distance between them, and Linus knows if he was ever stupid enough to ask about him sitting so comfortably close this time, Frank would have some bullshit line about their cover, about keeping up the act. But they're alone in this car, just them and a driver who's only watching them enough to make sure no one's fucking in his backseat, and so Linus just lets himself enjoy it. There's a lot they have to just let go unsaid between them.

The receptionist at the desk is sweet and friendly and she expedites their check in, offering to call a bellhop to get their bags from the car she assumes they must have left it in and then looking sweetly lost when Linus just grins and says they've got everything with them. Linus imagines, given the cost of rooms here, they're not often used for the kind of hookups that don't come with baggage. He leaves her a nice tip when she passes him his room key. 

There's something about the way they set these things, these moments up, that reminds Linus of the elaborate games he'd played as a child, moving the furniture in his sister's big doll house to turn it into a fortress, a castle, a cabin in the wild. They dress up and use other people's names, they create a stage on which they can be lovers, because in their everyday, Frank can't let that be real.

Linus has even learned to be okay with that.

The door shuts and Frank fiddles with the locks, obviously not enthused with the security provided, and when Linus touches his shoulder he turns easily, letting himself be pulled down and kissed. Those jeans might be expensive, but they hide nothing. When Linus presses his hand between Frank’s thighs, he finds him hot and hard as an iron bar. Linus pops the button on Frank's fly one-handed, and Frank gasps into his mouth, the hand on the back of his neck tightening like Frank needs the extra stability. His feet shuffle a little wider, all compliance as Linus gets into his pants, grips him and squeezes with careful pressure.

Pain is part of how Frank makes sense of the world. Linus figured that out pretty quick; a lot of the reckless shit Frank gets up to makes a hell of a lot more sense with the understanding that Frank is one of those people who need pain to define everything else against. When Linus flexes his fingers, Frank whines and his hands skate over Linus’s neck and shoulder, holding close as Linus moves from kissing his gasping mouth to biting at his neck. 

Frank smells like sweat and the dirty, earthy smell of the apartment they’re using to lay low. His clothes, by contrast, still smell fresh, like the store they came from. Linus sucks a mark right on the edge of where Frank’s collar will hide it. He knows Frank would pitch a bitch if he left those telling bruises where he couldn’t cover them; he also knows Frank wants him to. The things Frank wants and the things Frank can stand having actually happen are very rarely the same, but Linus has learned to adapt.

With the hand not rhythmically clenching around Frank’s dick, slowly increased pressure until the man squirms and whines through his teeth, Linus pulls Frank’s shirt collar to the side, thumb hooked in the strap of the undershirt to tug that aside as well, and bites along the ridge of Frank’s collar bone. Frank’s breathing faster now, sharp, tight little inhales, and he’s so wet in Linus’s hand that it’s going to mark the front of his jeans when Linus pulls away. Linus chases the smell of Frank, sweaty and sharp, biting and kissing until Frank squirms fitfully back from him. 

“Shower,” he whines, like he’s desperately trying to put his thoughts back in some coherent order. “You said I needed, after dinner, you said...”

"Pretty sure I said you _ could_," Linus says, keeping his hand tight around Frank's cock, not stroking or varying the pressure at all anymore. Just gripping him, holding him from taking the step back Linus knows he wants to take. It's impossible to imagine explaining how this feels to anyone else, the power of having Frank Castle shaking and eager in his grip. "You wanna get cleaned up for me, sweetheart? Make yourself all pretty for me?"

It's a gamble. Everything about dealing with Frank is a gamble; the man has a hell of a temper when he decides to take offense, and he's got a bizarre set of sensibilities. Sometimes talking like this gets Frank to snarl and bristle, sometimes it makes him hot, humiliation burning on his face even as his cock drenches Linus's hand.

This would seem to be the latter sort of case. Frank manages to hitch two sharp breaths and outright whines, a little tremor of desperation in the sound, when Linus starts working his cock again.

"I do, I do, please, I wanna, ah, I wanna be good for you."

He really is a sight. Linus would put money on Frank losing a lot of the definition and firmness in his physique in the next five years, maybe a decade at most. He's going to slow down, because under all the drive and the blood and the bullheaded persistence, Frank is just as human as Linus, and that's what humans do. Some point in the not-to-distant future, Frank will look his age, or worse; he'll look thicker and ragged and more tired of all the shit. Now though, he's all muscle, looks good enough Linus bets people question if he's really as old as he says. He looks _ powerful_, except his posture and that trembling belie all that. 

Linus has the power here. Frank could kill him in the space of a blink, and he's shaking in Linus's hand, trying so hard not to cum already, right at the start of the game. 

What the hell this could be called _ but _good, Linus doesn't know. 

Releasing Frank, Linus leans onto his toes to kiss Frank properly one more time and then waves him on. "Go on. Don't make me wait."

Frank likes pain and Linus likes danger and they're both maybe gambling something here, toeing a dangerous line and refusing to step back to safety no matter how many times they're offered the opportunity. So maybe Linus's addicted to it, to the sense of risk that comes from this. Maybe he's even chasing it, spending the day getting all of this set up, way more of an elaborate scheme than should be required to get laid. The decadence of this place, the soft lighting and the exquisite indulgence of a mattress on the big bed; the expensive clothes, jeans that cost more than Linus's last legit job would have paid him in a day. Linus has poured time and effort into tonight, way more than a simple, casual fuck should need, and then he goes out of his way to bait Frank, tease and push and dig to try and see if Frank really wants him. 

Waiting for Frank to finish his shower, Linus takes off his jacket, unknots his tie and lays it across the desk. He hesitates over the gloves. He always does, once he covers the amputation. The glove is a piss poor prosthetic, but it does the job of disguising the missing finger at a glance, if no one's looking. And they're alone here, no need to play as though they're performing for anyone. Sometimes it's just nice to pretend, for a moment, that he hasn't lost so much since he hitched his wagon to Frank's. 

They come off slow, one finger at a time and set on the desk above the tie, laid out like evidence. 

Seated on the end of the bed, Linus is treated to the sight of Frank stepping out of the en suite still damp. The clothes he'd been all ramped up to bitch about the cost of are now discarded on the bathroom floor, Frank standing bare before Linus, all shy and eager. 

"Hands and knees on the bed," Linus instructs, sliding to his feet as Frank moves past him to obey. The sleeves of Linus's shirt are rolled to the elbow now, and he fetches the little bottle of lube out of his jacket pocket before taking his place behind Frank. "Head down, ass up, baby. You know what I want to see."

There's so many levels of pretense to this. Linus is careful to avoid using Frank's name; he hates doing it, hates depersonalizing this, and yet there is a certain pleasure to being allowed to use these pet names, names Frank would never usually tolerate. It's easier for Frank, he thinks; Frank almost never calls Linus by his given name. Frank doesn't want this to be a personal thing, Frank wants what Linus gives him, but listening to him talk, Linus could be anyone. 

But he gets mad seeing others look at Linus. He came back from doing the job at De Rossi's looking like a man possessed, seizing onto Linus and dragging him in, desperate and clingy, demanding Linus's attention, down on his knees and asking for Linus to fuck his face before Linus could fully appreciate that he'd come back safe and relatively unharmed. He got jealous of people touching Linus, especially in public, and he got possessive when they were alone again.

Layers of bullshit, levels of pretense, and Linus stuck trying to hold the balance, flattered by the notion of being the one trusted to know where that balance is.

Without being told, Frank brings his hands back to grip his ass and hold himself spread, face half buried in the bedspread. Room like this, Linus thinks he should have put a towel down, wet as Frank's going to get it, but it's too late and he doesn't rightly give a shit about the expensive duvet. 

“You think De Rossi was hoping you’d do this for him,” Linus asks, grazing his knuckles up the back of Frank’s thigh, over his balls, pressing the pad of his thumb against his hole. “Bet he pays well. Has to be _ some _ reason Gelli hung on him for so long. But you weren’t interested in his money, were you?”

It's less of a gamble now, but it's still some kind of roll of the dice, a sort of hedged bet that by this point Frank will let him say these things without storming out.

Frank cracks his eye open, looking over his shoulder from where he's shoved himself down on the bed. Even like that, Linus can read the scandal on that face, the affront at Linus suggesting Frank would have any interest in letting De Rossi touch him no matter what money he offered. 

"No, you know who takes care of you," Linus goes on, and listens to Frank whine when he takes his hands off him. Linus stops touching just long enough to slick his fingers, and then he sets to teasing Frank open with slow, careful intent. When Linus is in charge, and with this he usually is, he likes draws it out, tries to make it last because Frank doesn't allow himself moments often enough to just enjoy himself. If they're going to be infrequent, Linus will at the very least ensure that they're indulgent. 

At some point, Frank's hands go from pulling himself open for Linus's inspection to clutching at the blanket as he pants and shoves his face into the mattress. There's a certain satisfaction in knowing how to break Frank's facade of calm apart like this, in having been trusted to see him like this enough times to know by feel how to make it too good for him to hide. Linus knows Frank's body, he knows the things Frank likes, and by this point he knows all the ways he could make Frank cum just from a couple fingers in his ass. Frank can tolerate so much pain without flinching, but he's so sensitive to the things he finds pleasurable, it would be easy to make him cum just like this, but Linus has loftier aspirations tonight. As stunning as it always is to watch Frank come undone over something as simple as Linus's index and middle fingers, Linus wants more.

That doesn't mean he takes it easy on him. Frank is barely holding himself up on his knees when Linus pulls his hand free, wiping his fingers off of Frank's side before undoing his belt. The sound of the buckle, in the otherwise silent room, is damn near pornographic, loud and dramatic, as is the growl of his zipper opening, and Linus can't stop watching the muscles of Frank's back jump at each sound. He's got his eyes squinched closed again, fingers clutching the blanket and mouth open, panting. They've barely gotten started and he's a desperate mess.

"You need to be spoiled, don't you. Not just anyone knows how to treat you like you need."

No one knows better than Linus how to play Frank. It's special, somehow, that Frank lets him see enough to have learned how to wreck him, turn him from the restrained, capable killer of killers to a whining, grasping mess desperate for touch. Like this, Linus could shove Frank into the mattress and fuck him hard and fast, or he could tell him to get in his lap and ride him; he could tell Frank to do just about anything, and Frank would comply willingly, all the power passed off to Linus.

Watching Frank tie himself up silently, patiently waiting... there's a power to that, too, to Frank trusting him to follow through, not leave him strung out with some good payoff. Kicking off the salvaged suit pants, stepping carefully out of his socks, Linus takes his time undressing, making Frank wait. He strings himself out so prettily, watching with one eye as Linus unbuttons his shirt and moaning this soft, sweet noise when Linus tugs off the undershirt and tosses it aside. He's desperate now, desperate to be used properly, so when Linus finally fits himself back in close, teasing them both with his cock pressing against Frank put not letting himself sink inside yet, Frank's got his mouth open, breathing anxious little noises that translate well enough as pleas. 

They both groan when Linus finally pushes in, gripping hard to Frank's hips and watching that hungry hole swallow him. It's a sight for sure, and Frank is tight and hot, clinging perfectly. The lizard part of Linus cares only about the sight of muscle stretched so taut around his swollen cock, but higher brain function acknowledges that what makes this so good has largely got to do with it being Frank underneath him. If this were just about sex, Linus could find easier men to sleep with at a dozen bars and clubs he knows of, someone to fuck who would be gone less than an hour after they finished and who would never have access to his heart, much less be capable of breaking it.

"That's all you want," he says, dragging Frank up and back, getting the angle that makes Frank whine at first and then sob with how good it is when Linus fucks him hard. "You just want someone to treat you nice. And you know I will. You're all mine, 'cuz I'm the best at making you feel good."

Frank's hands are scrabbling for purchase up by the pillows, way over his head, and every time he digs in with the heels of his hands, he wriggles fitfully back, making Linus's every third of fourth thrust a little extra powerful. When Linus shoves in particularly hard jostling Frank up the bed, Frank shouts a weak noise, but otherwise he can't seem to answer Linus at all. 

Good, then, that Linus doesn't really need verbal reassurance. He's got all the evidence that he knows exactly how to rock Frank's world laid out desperate and eager beneath him. 

Curling tight over Frank's back changes the angle for the better, letting Linus double over Frank so he can bite and kiss at his shoulder while getting a hand around Frank's cock. Frank's noises are all gratitude now, enthusiastic approval in every moaning exhale. Linus uses his knowledge of Frank's body and his preferences to get him close, to play him. He knows Frank has a thing for his size, so he lets him feel his weight pressed against his back, works his hips so Frank has to take every inch of Linus's thick cock. They've fucked often enough for Linus to have learned all Frank's tells, from the way his back flushes a deep red to the way his breath catches in his throat when he's getting it just right. 

He's close, right on the edge, when Linus rocks in particularly sharp and cums. 

Frank's a mess by the time Linus pulls out. His face is red and streaked with wet, drool and tears smeared all over his exposed cheek from him rubbing his face into the duvet. His cock is leaking fat strings of precum, smeared all over the bed, his skin is flushed, and when Linus pushes his cheeks apart, Linus's cum starts to leak from his fucked open hole. 

Mesmerized, Linus reaches out and gathers the slick on his finger, pushing it back inside. Frank's ass is a little looser than before, rim hot and a little swollen, and without thinking too much about it, Linus adjusts his touch so he can push two, then three fingers in. Frank takes it beautifully, making some high, eager noise Linus has never heard from him before. Three fingers in, Frank feels tight and hungry again, body trying to keep Linus's hand right where it is each time Linus tries to withdraw. 

Frank's so wet, slicked with cum and lube, rocking back on those three fingers and eager for more. Linus teases Frank's rim with his thumb, folding his hand tight, and Frank breaths some weak, sobbing sound. 

"More," he says, the word choked out. "I can take it, c'mon, please, please give me, just, more."

Frank won't often beg, not outright like this, definitely not without Linus telling him he has to. It's a heady feeling, hearing him like this, getting him there without telling him it’s what he wants to see or hear.

This is new between them but Linus doesn't hesitate. He pulls his hand back, soothing Frank's sobbing complaint with a soft sound, and grabs the lube, liberally slicking his hand before returning. It's a little awkward, rocking his hand to work in the stump of his severed pinky finger in, but the stretch, hot and wet, of Frank around his hand has Linus's dick getting hard again. He's not even got his thumb in and Frank's shivering, trying to rock against him. When he withdraws enough to fold his thumb against his palm and then starts carefully pressing back in, reveling in how eagerly, how greedily, Frank's body accepts the intrusion, Frank cries out, low and sweet. 

There's a moment, working to push the widest part of his hand in, where Linus has to pause, Frank's breathing so erratic it's concerning, but the stillness seems to agitate him worse. It's easier once he passes that point, so when he pushes forward, Frank takes Linus to the wrist in one easy glide.

It's a lot. Frank's molten, slick and wet and malleable around Linus's hand, and when Linus curls his fingers, going against the resistance to carefully fold his fingers into a proper fist, Frank gasps and shudders. 

"Linus," Frank whines, the rest muffled as he buries his face, leaving Linus gutted at the sound of his own name. Frank rarely uses his first name at all, certainly never like this, and when he rocks his fist forward, Frank's back arches, mouth open in a silent scream. A repeat of the motion makes him collapse back against the bed, strings cut; one last push in and he cums, sobbing with it as he drenches the bedspread and goes so tight around Linus's fist it makes Linus moan. 

The tiniest motion makes Frank twitch now, oversensitive, gasping as Linus carefully withdraws. He's swollen, hole left glistening and open, a sight that makes Linus want to hold him right there and fuck him again. Frank is trembling, breathing uneven, trying to hold the position Linus put him in, doesn't let himself sprawl out comfortable until Linus presses the back of his clean hand against his hip in passing, and then he crumbles with a grateful sound, naked and exhausted and breathless. 

In the bathroom, Linus washes his hands in the basin, dithering a moment before wrapping his fingers around himself. He's not as hard as he was the first time, but he's hard enough, stroking himself fast and efficient to a second orgasm. It leaves him breathless, free hand braced on the edge of the counter, soiled fingers back in the sink as he tries to get his head back together. 

As fast as Frank can recover from being shot or stabbed or beaten within an inch of his life, he takes much longer coming back from orgasm. He’s barely moved since Linus left the room, stretched out on his stomach, arms curled under his head. He cracks his eye open and gives Linus a look that’s hard to decipher, shy and guarded, but he’s perfectly compliant when Linus starts cleaning up the worst of the mess on him. The bedspread is going to have to come off the bed at some point, but that can wait. 

They don’t do a lot of cuddling. It’s happened, but it’s not the usual, so Linus doesn’t expect much when he lays down next to Frank, careful to leave him his own space. It feels more special, then, somehow more meaningful, when Frank drags himself over to lean his face against Linus’s shoulder, still breathing a little heavier than normal. Linus keeps himself still until Frank curls in closer, sighs, and says quietly, “I liked that.”

Part of Linus wants to laugh, and he knows how explosively bad that would be to do even as he’s biting back the impulse. Frank would take it as an insult, he wouldn’t understand the humor Linus finds in him confessing that, open and easy, when usually he dozes off and pretends the next day that nothing happened. They don’t talk about sex except _ during _ sex.

“What did you like,” Linus asks instead, shifting his arm so he can curl it around behind Frank and play with the hair at the nape of his neck. Part of him expects Frank to pull away, to shut down despite the mild response, because shutting down is Frank’s go to. 

Instead, Frank huffs a small noise close enough now that he can put an arm over Linus’s chest, touching like he can’t help himself. “All of it. You… spoiling me, making me take it. That… your hand. It was.” Pausing, he angles his face more into Linus’s chest, and Linus can feel the heat coming off his face as he inhales against Linus’s skin. He won’t look at Linus, even when Linus cranes his neck to try and catch his eye. “It was good.”

Between them, sex is always mired in layers of obfuscation, plausible deniability that Linus always assumed was going to be required for Frank. Open, if shy, honesty was never something Linus expected in this matter, and it’s stunning to get it now, in this opulent room, their expensive disguises strewn on the floor throughout the suite. The set up was so elaborate, a game built off an act they put together to take down a criminal, but the payoff is so indescribably sweet. Linus feels like they’re on the edge of something, a moment, perhaps, pushing them toward dropping the need for all that pretense and bullshit.

“It was good,” Linus agrees, carding his fingers through Frank’s hair and feeling him relax against him. “I liked it too.”


End file.
